


Songs to Set Me Free

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: Go Home and Pretend This Never Happened [1]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Curt does not respect the campsite rule, Cynicism, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overdosing, Power Imbalance, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, borderline abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 13,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the rooftop, an unstable Curt takes teenage Arthur with him on tour, as boyfriend or hanger on or distraction. It works out as well as you could expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please pay attention to the warnings in the tags, because this is ultimately a very unhappy story. It was meant as a tragedy and may be triggering for some people. This is the first time I've chosen not to use archive warnings, but the warnings I have tagged are more relevant. Also, I note that I've been writing this fic as a series of vignettes since late 2012; it reads like a series of interconnected vignettes, some of which have been posted in slightly different forms as Yuletide treats (ten and eleven) or as responses to prompts (chapter four) in the interim. Finally, many thanks to my beta reader gonergone for her help.

The boy with the dark hair dyed that ridiculous blue isn’t stupid. At least, he’s smart enough to get Curt’s signals right away, despite being so wide-eyed and looking like such a kid, and he’s persistent enough to follow Curt through the crowd, which isn’t easy. They nearly lose each other when Curt’s leaving the bar. Curt scowls into the crowd, holding the beers he has just picked up for them. _Come on. Where the hell are you? Everyone in this scene_ dreams _of fucking me; you don’t want to miss this…_

And then Curt catches a glimpse of brown-blue hair, and sees the light reflecting off one gaudy earring. Curt’s mouth twists. This boy, whoever he has, has mostly failed at looking like Brian – Brian, who couldn’t even bother to show up tonight, and who must be truly done with Curt now, after the scene the last time they were together. The memory makes Curt look down. He’s not sure if the kid’s non-resemblance to Brian is good or bad, which is pretty pathetic either way. Then again, sleeping with him tonight will be better than sleeping alone. Curt has been alone enough lately, in hotels in London and Berlin and then in the apartment Jack Fairy found for him. He’s been wondering why he even bothers, lately, so the distraction will be welcome.

*

Cold wind hits Curt’s face and body as he steps out onto the roof. He can feel it clearing his head, because he relaxes, sits down by the edge, and smiles for the first time all night or maybe all day as the younger man follows him out. He’s even up to cheesy, sentimental drivel which he would probably never resort to if he were completely sober, or maybe he would. It’s been so long since he was completely sober that he can’t really remember.

“Make a wish,” he says, spraying beer from the top of the can as he opens it. The kid laughs like it’s the best joke he’s heard in his life, and the sound warms Curt, despite the cold night. _High as a kite, that one_. They can be cheesy and ridiculous together.

“What’s your name? Your favorite color? Song? Movie?”

The kid stares at Curt for a while before answering. He’s either really shy, or busy drinking in the sight of Curt – or both – so Curt takes a moment to stare back and get a better sense of his features. Flushed cheeks and brown eyes badly lined with too much makeup make him look puppyish without being unappealing. Full lips, great face and body, a little taller than either Curt or Brian – no, you couldn’t possibly call that unattractive. Curt beckons him closer.

“Arthur,” the kid says. He has to clear his throat before he can add, “Arthur Stuart.”

Arthur’s favorite color is blue, which makes Curt wonder if the choice owes something to Brian’s latest dye job and the dominant colours of his last album cover. Then he tries to forget Brian as Arthur murmurs that he loves too many songs to name just one, and that he hasn’t had time to go to the movies since he had to leave home. Curt raises an eyebrow at that.

“Had to?” he asks: he can’t help it.

Arthur’s face tightens. He hesitates before taking another step, as if the question has hit him so hard he can’t even move, can’t even continue walking forward to join Curt. Curt knows the feeling. Arthur’s reaction has answered his question for him; he doesn’t need much more detail than that.

“Never mind,” Curt says. “Come here and have a drink.” He holds one beer out toward Arthur, who draws closer at last. “What brought you here tonight? I mean, besides the music, which is really the main thing…”

Arthur relaxes, even smiles again.

“I’ve been traveling with the Flaming Creatures,” he says. “The opening band.”

 _I_ remember, Curt thinks, caustically, but doesn’t say anything as Arthur goes on.

“Working for them a bit.”

His eyes are shining with pride when he says it. Nothing about his situation is surprising. Bands need roadies just like they need groupies and hangers on, and it has to be better for Arthur to be with them than living at home with Mom and Dad in some shitty narrow-minded suburb. Curt may have escaped that life long ago, but he remembers what it was like and why he had to leave, too, and he feels like he already _knows_ Arthur by the time the kid sits down beside him.

And then a shooting star passes over their heads trailing what looks like glitter, and Curt is repeating his dumb line about making a wish and a bunch of other crap before inviting Arthur to the stained mattress someone has dragged up the rooftop for some unknown reason.

*

It’s the stinging cold wind that wakes Curt. Arthur is sound asleep, half-curled around Curt’s body, and Curt wonders if he can grab his jacket without waking the kid – wonders how the damn thing even ended up where it has. Maybe he tried to use it as a makeshift blanket, a really shitty one, but a bit of cover from the cold just the same. Maybe he did the generous thing and offered it to Arthur for the same purpose. He likes to think so, only, he needs to get dressed if he’s going to leave now.

He leans across Arthur’s body and reaches for his jacket. Arthur stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes. Curt grins: Arthur’s exhausted, for obvious reasons.

He pulls away from Arthur. He knows he should leave, and yet, he doesn’t want to.He’d been such a mess last night, still is, really, but Arthur had given him some relief from all that – a reprieve. _Poetic, this morning_ , he thinks. Curt shrugs the jacket on. He finds he _likes_ Arthur, as much as he can after knowing him, what, a few hours? Yet he seems sincere, with his wide eyes and that shy way he laughed at Curt’s jokes, or seemed so hurt at the mention of _home_...

Curt looks down at Arthur. He wishes he’d gotten Arthur to tell him a bit more about his own life and about _real_ things when they talked last night. Obviously he’s as lonely as Curt was and is, another one of those queer kids the world likes to kick around. Again, sincere – unlike most of the empty-headed fans and giggling tramps Curt has been with.

_Unlike Brian._

Maybe the company would do Curt good. Maybe, also, he could show Brian and all of them that he’s fine, he has someone new now.

Maybe they could actually get to know each other and give a shit about each other, someday.

He stands up to leave, then hesitates. Arthur opens his eyes.

“Hey,” he says.

Curt thinks, _What the hell_ , and sits down on the mattress again.

“D’you have somewhere to be?” he asks, in the same gentle tone he’d used the night before when he’d said such sappy things.

Arthur rubs his kohl-stained eyes and shakes his head.

“Not – now.  The Creatures aren’t playing again ‘til Sunday,” he says.

Curt laughs.

“You could leave them, you know. Come be a hanger on for me instead.”

“Really?” Arthur asks, eyes going even wider. Curt kisses him.

“Yeah. Come with me.”

A smile lights Arthur’s face for a moment. Then it falters, briefly.

“You really mean it?”

Curt reaches for his hand.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll, uh, find you a job with the tour, since you've been working for Malcolm already…"

Arthur hesitates for the first time this morning.

"They've been really good friends to me," he says. "I wouldn’t feel right just running off...."

It's not a _real_ no, Curt can tell that much. He squeezes Arthur's hand harder.

"I'm sure they'll open for us again," he says, more insistent than he would have expected. "Come on. You'll see more places and stay in better hotels-"

"I'm not - into this scene for that," Arthur says.

 _Good_ , Curt thinks.

"But for me, right?" Curt asks. "Come on."

"Of course," Arthur says, with a little half-laugh. "I mean, if you say it like that."


	2. Chapter 2

“You should just be yourself,” Curt says one day, kissing Arthur’s shoulder. “Not _pretend,_ you know?”

“I guess,” Arthur replies. Then: “What is it? What do you mean?”

Curt sighs. It’s not Arthur’s fault, but sometimes he’s so naïve it’s painful. Then again, he might just be really shy, really worried about being polite ( _ha_ , Curt thinks) and nice to his boyfriend or rather his idol. He doesn’t usually seem like a stupid kid, when you get him talking. _You just have to dynamite conversation out of him._

“It’s that people don’t understand,” Curt mutters, thinking of the latest shit reviews and lighting another cigarette with nervous hands. _Curt Wild, lost without Brian Slade to emulate, resumes his ever more stylized stage antics…_ Son of a bitch. And it’s not like Curt can throttle the fucker, since he’s never met him, or make him understand or anything. Idiot. Curt may have _loved_ Brian, but he never wanted to _be_ him. He’d never tried to be anything except himself – not that he expected most people to understand any of that.

Ranting to Jack Fairy and their shared manager seemed pretty useless earlier, but maybe he’s gotten some of his anger out of his system. He can think about the article without snapping at the nearest target, which would probably be Arthur right now. Maybe the joint he’d smoked has calmed him down, too, and left him in a thoughtful mood.

“It’s like they’re so fucking busy being other people, being what someone expects, that they can’t imagine someone else being – ” he hesitates – “honest. You know?”

Arthur nods, and reaches for Curt’s hand. Curt thinks he understands more than he lets on; he draws closer to Arthur.

“So, you know. Don’t follow crowds or fashions or whatever,” Curt says. “It’s like, if you can be yourself, why not? Fuck anyone who doesn’t like it.”

“It’s just that I’m – really ordinary,” Arthur admits. He flushes in that way that always makes Curt want to bend him over something. Curt kisses him again, and runs his fingers through Arthur’s hair, which is still dyed that awful blue. The smile is back on his face when he speaks again.

“I don’t even know what you see in me…”

Curt frowns in answer.

“Don’t say that,” he says, because he does like Arthur. Arthur never really asks for much ( _shit, I_ said _I’d find him some sort of job with the tour_ ), never wants him to be anything except himself. He makes a pretty good audience, too, when Curt talks to him about music and things.

“You just don’t _say_ much about yourself,” Curt says, stroking Arthur’s hand. “But you’re smart, and I think you’re special.” Curt winces a little. Even _he_ can’t pull off lines that are that cheesy, even with someone as adoring and as puppyish as Arthur. He stutters on. “I mean, you have things that you’re into…”

Arthur’s cheeks are bright red. _Shit_ , Curt thinks.

“I like to write,” Arthur offers. 

“Songs? Cool–”

“No,” Arthur says, laughing a little. “Just stories. Nothing great, but…” He shrugs.

“Hey, that _is_ cool,” Curt says. He grins suddenly. “Am I gonna end up in a book or something?”

Arthur laughs again, more fully, and Curt kisses him full on the lips as Arthur’s hands go around his back and neck. Curt slips his tongue into Arthur’s mouth before pulling away just enough to shrug off his jacket, revealing the pin he had clipped half-heartedly to the collar of his shirt.

Arthur’s gaze immediately drifts to it. _Damn._ Curt puts one hand over the pin, the other still on Arthur’s chest.

“Wondering what this is?” Curt asks. He’d rather confront shit head on than wait to be asked or look evasive or anything. At least, he likes to _think_ he’s like that.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says. Curt looks down.

“Something Brian gave me.” Then Curt is looking up again, straight at Arthur, and trying to laugh it off. “Belonged to Oscar Wilde. Supposedly, anyway. That’s why I keep it around. Well, mostly why I keep it around…”

“Wow,” Arthur replies. He doesn’t press Curt, which Curt appreciates. He never really presses Curt about anything. It’s nice. _Way more fun talking to him than some journalist._

“Anyway,” Curt says, gesturing toward the bed, “I’m sick of talking. How about a quickie before I have to go?”

*

The next day, Arthur’s hair is dark brown again, not the blue he’d been dyeing it. Curt laughs, runs his hand through it.

“It wasn’t working for me,” Arthur says, grinning. “And, um… I thought about what you said.”

He shrugs. His eyes are bright beneath the heavy eyeliner, and his smile is so appealing that Curt just has to pull him close and kiss him.


	3. Chapter 3

_What’s that word?_ Arthur thinks as the girl passes him the joint. Acceptance, friendship, belonging – whatever – all those things he’d never had in his old life. And yet here he is, backstage at a show in Belgium, making friends with other kids in this scene in a way he never could before. It’s beautiful. His mind is racing with it, whatever _it_ is; he can hardly remember being so happy.

He grins at the girl beside him. She’d introduced herself as Sally from Liverpool, sometimes-girlfriend of the drummer in the opening band. They compare concerts they’ve seen and places they’ve been to. She looks maybe two years older than Arthur, three at the outside, but when she asks him if he’s with anyone he can brag that he’s with Curt Wild.

Her eyes widen.

“Wow,” she says, then adds in a tone that makes Arthur flinch, though he’s not sure why, “Good luck.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly different version of this chapter was posted months ago, in response to a prompt by darkartsandcrafts on Tumblr.

He’s had a headache all day from drinking and jetlag and late hours, but that doesn’t stop Arthur from grinning at his reflection as he finishes his makeup. He likes the way he looks now more than he ever has – likes that his cheekbones look sharper every day, almost like Brian Slade’s, and likes looking like an adult instead of the shy schoolboy he still feels he is. He busies himself with a glitter lip gloss like the one he’d seen Malcolm use when he was still traveling with the Flaming Creatures, though he knows full well he’ll kiss it off as soon as he sees Curt again.

Besides, no one will look at Arthur. He doesn’t make much of an impression, even after leaving home, and even as Curt Wild’s sort of boyfriend. People just don’t notice him, except the odd hotel clerk who’ll look at Curt in disgust for actually traveling with a male partner, instead of just talking about being gay in interviews. They don’t stand a chance with Curt. He’s had to throw a couple – well – tantrums, for lack of a better word, to make sure Arthur gets to stay with him. Arthur’s more amused than anything.  _I need it_ , he sometimes thinks. He needs that open anger, the scowling or shouting or threatening to trash the place. They’re everything Arthur can’t do himself. He  _can_ do loneliness and confusion and abandonment, but he can’t do anything _with_ those sorts of feelings except fade into the background. Maybe Curt will be a good influence on him.

Arthur tugs at his t-shirt (sequined and low cut like something a girl would wear; he could never have used it when he lived at home). He hates these empty moments spent waiting for Curt in the hotel. Who the hell would live a life like this and still end up sitting around alone like a total loser? He should go socialize with some of Curt’s or Jack’s people and friends and hangers on – smoke a joint, maybe, because he’s feeling a little queasy. Maybe he should get something to eat, too. He could try to talk someone into going for lunch with him, except who’d want to spend time with  _Arthur,_  and anyway, he has no money.

He’ll get food with Curt later. If Curt has had a good rehearsal – if he’s feeling creative and upbeat after getting his band on board with some new trick or material – he might spring for room service and champagne and all that.

A quick look at the clock reminds Arthur that he’s slept half the day away.  _I need to get out of this room_ ¸ he thinks. He gets up and walks around the sitting room until he finds the leather jacket he’d tossed to the floor – a hand me down from one of the guys in Curt’s band. As he pulls it on he notices the pad of hotel stationery. He hesitates by the front door, wondering if he should grab some paper and try writing something just to pass the time. It’s been ages since he’s done anything that required that sort of thinking or creativity. But he’d only look stupid if anyone saw him. He’d be better off taking some 'ludes from the bottle in the bathroom next to Curt’s own stash. The timing’s actually perfect, since he hasn’t eaten in hours. More importantly, it’s nice not feeling ashamed of himself all the time when he’s on them, and the sex is fantastic. He’s amazed at how well he and Curt  _fit_  together.

He’s turning away from the front door when he hears Curt’s step in the hall; he would know the sound anywhere. The door swings open abruptly.

“Hey,” Arthur says, whirling around again to face Curt and smiling before he sees Curt’s scowl.  _Fuck._ The rehearsal can’t have gone well.

“Hey,” Curt mutters. Then he looks Arthur over and softens. “You look hot – all tarted up.”

Arthur’s smile returns. That’s the thing about Curt: when you have him and his attention, you have  _all_ of him, and it’s like the sun is shining just on you, or some bullshit like that. It’s true, in Curt’s case.

The problem, of course, is when Arthur  _doesn’t_  have him.

“Thanks,” Arthur says as Curt collapses onto the sofa. “Are you – all right?”

Curt shrugs. He doesn’t answer, just lights a cigarette and takes a few drags before he speaks again, in a dull, slurred voice.

“What did you do today?”

The question’s intimate despite being so utterly mundane. Arthur never knows how to answer those kinds of questions, and yet knowing Curt bothers to ask him makes him feel a little warmer. He can’t imagine what  _Curt_  sees in  _him_.

“Not much – just slept in,” Arthur murmurs. Curt gives a half-laugh.

“Wish I had.” He finishes his cigarette. No one goes through cigarettes as fast as Curt does when he’s nervous; it still surprises Arthur. Arthur knows, however, that Curt’s been fighting with the guys in his band a lot lately. Arthur’s not sure how long this lineup will last, and he suspects that’s why – or part of why – Curt is so on edge.

“But we shouldn’t just – sit here,” Curt adds, standing up. “We should do something, like fuck or go out and find a party…” He stretches, then takes Arthur’s hand. The touch makes Arthur’s skin tingle as if he were already high on something. “Actually, screw that. I just want you. I’m sick of people – sick of being recognized and hassled and shit.”

Arthur flushes. He supposes Curt keeps him around as a distraction for when he’s tired of fame or whatever, like a pet or a toy. That’s fine by Arthur. The last few days have been the best he’s ever had it.

“Works for me,” Arthur says before leaning in to kiss Curt.

*

They fall asleep together after a long time spent shagging. Arthur was drowsy throughout – he took some of the Quaaludes before they started – but he remembers Curt calling his name over and over, as if he were the most important person in the world. He likes to think he’ll never forget it, and likes being at least dimly aware that Curt’s arms are still around him as they sleep the evening away in their nest of discarded clothes and makeup and empty bottles.  


	5. Chapter 5

At first Curt had said, “You shouldn’t touch that shit," and Arthur was relieved for both of them. Then Curt caved and started using again, occasionally, then more regularly. Arthur learned to accept it. What else could he do? Curt won’t listen to him. He won’t listen to anyone, and Arthur is lucky just to _be_ here, not to be completely beneath Curt's notice.

 It’s in Berlin that Curt injects him for the first time. Arthur’s a little buzzed already, enough to forget his unease, or almost forget it.

Curt is as high as Arthur has ever seen him. He teases Arthur, says “I haven’t penetrated you like this yet.” Arthur can only smile, nervously.

“You wanna start small,” Curt adds. He’s still smiling, though his tone is a little more serious. “Too much and this shit can kill you…”

Arthur ignores the warning and the sudden tightness in his stomach.  The cold prick of the needle piercing his skin brings him back to reality for a moment, until the drug starts to take effect. Then he’s floating away, his face flushing, so happy that nothing he has experienced in his short life can compare. He starts laughing before Curt has even drawn the needle out.

*

He’s sick afterwards. He barely makes it to the toilet before he starts retching, finally aware of what he has gotten into.

Curt is still on the nod when he finishes. Arthur collapses into the chair beside him. He wipes sweat from his brow with a shaking hand and wishes he had the energy to clean his teeth: the taste of vomit in his mouth disgusts him and worries him, too. He won’t have the energy to move if he has to throw up again.

Eventually, once the nausea subsides, he manages to reach down and caress Curt’s sleeping face. _I’m not touching this shit again_ , he thinks _._


	6. Chapter 6

“I – turned eighteen,” Arthur had said one morning. “Last week. The eighth.”

Curt teased him about forgetting his own birthday, but promised to celebrate at the next stop on the tour.

He makes good on that promise, and surprises Arthur with champagne and vodka in the hotel room. Arthur, who had been getting rather restless and lonely as he does when he’s stuck waiting for Curt, bolts upright. He crosses the cluttered suite, takes the champagne from Curt and kicks the door shut behind them. Curt laughs as he sets the vodka down on the table beside Arthur’s leather jacket.

“You’re legal now?” Curt asks, pouring out a shot for Arthur and taking a swig straight from the bottle himself.

Arthur laughs, too. Curt has already shown him things that he never realized were _possible_ , let alone pleasurable, and every minute has been sublime. It’s a bit late to worry about the difference in age.

“Did you care?”

He puts a hand on Curt’s shoulder, tilting his face to kiss the older man – he’s already a little taller than Curt. Curt parts Arthur’s lips with his tongue as Arthur shuts his eyes. The kiss alone sends shivers down his spine. 


	7. Chapter 7

_“I don’t know what the fuck I keep you around for. I didn’t sign up to look after a goddamn kid, ok? Just fuck off.”_

Arthur wanders down to the hotel café, silent and drained. Curt’s words are still ringing in his ears. He knows – hopes – that Curt will calm down later; his anger never lasts long, at least not with Arthur, and things will probably be beautiful again soon, but that doesn’t help Arthur much _now_.

Jack Fairy waves to him from a table. Arthur hesitates before joining him. He can just _see_ Jack sizing him up. He knows he must look like a wreck, but Jack is good enough not to say anything, and Arthur accepts the proffered cigarette with shaking hands. They sit in silence for a while. Arthur takes a few deep drags, trying to calm down, while Jack buries his face once more in the notebook he has open on the table. Arthur has hardly seen him when he isn’t working – rehearsing or at least jotting down ideas for lyrics or costumes or sets. They haven’t talked much, really. Jack’s always quiet, and Arthur – well, Arthur doesn’t make much of an impression. He’d just assumed he must be beneath Jack’s notice, as usual.

“I’ve ordered tea,” Jack says out of the blue. The sound of his voice startles Arthur, who doesn’t respond. Jack looks up from his writing at last.

“I’ll get you a cup too, when the waiter returns.”

“Thanks,” Arthur murmurs. But he’s still so shaken that he doesn’t think tea would do him any good.

“Do you know if the bar’s open?” The question is out of his mouth before he realizes it. Jack makes a face and shakes his head.

“But I think that at least one of you should be sober,” he says, with a small smile. Arthur thinks it’s a sad smile, and leans in closer, grateful for the sympathy even though he knows he won’t be getting that drink, and even though he wouldn't have expected Jack to be so patronising. “Don’t you agree?”

For all Jack looks so flamboyant, and for all he sounds so gentle, he hasn’t left much room to _disagree_. Arthur looks down at the cigarette in his hand before finally replying.

“All right,” he says, meekly.


	8. Chapter 8

“So, breakfast in bed? With champagne?”

Curt pulls Arthur close. Arthur’s still a little jumpy, even quieter than normal, but Curt can’t blame him. He hadn’t even needed Jack to tell him he was a piece of shit to the poor kid – he had realized that on his own, once he sobered up.

Curt _will_ make it up to him. He’d rather have Arthur than any of the tramps he used to surround himself with – _junkie twerps_ , as Brian said. He pushes that thought away quickly.

“All right,” Arthur says.

Curt thinks of himself at that age, not so different from Arthur – another queer kid that the world had kicked around. _I’m not_ _making_ _things worse for him..._

He kisses Arthur before picking up the phone to dial room service.


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you high?” Curt asks. His voice is hoarse from singing and he can still hear the guitar riff in his head, dark and hypnotic. A good enough show, tonight. He grips Arthur’s arm, wanting nothing more than to find a private space somewhere and fuck him senseless.

Judging by Arthur’s flushed face and half parted lips, he’s pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing.

“Do you want anything?” Curt says. Arthur smiles, shakes his head.

“No,” he replies. “Just you, tonight. I – want to feel normal for a change, you know?”

_Smart kid,_ Curt thinks. _Smarter than me, anyway._

“Suit yourself.”

They kiss then. Curt is already aching, almost rock hard, and glad that the backstage area has emptied out as much as it has.


	10. Chapter 10

Curt is hung over and takes it out on the photographer while Arthur watches from the sidelines. Arthur usually likes these sessions, likes to see the photographers or rock journalists at work – the sort of work he’d considered himself when he was still in school and would think about his future, which seems like ages ago. But today’s been a little uncomfortable.

The photographer hoists her camera and says, pleadingly, “One more – ”

But Curt snarls, “Fuck off.” He turns, slinks away from the couch with the sullenness of a caged animal, and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the table by the door. When he looks up his eyes meet Arthur’s; he smiles, for the first time that day.

“Arthur,” he says. “Come here.”

“For the shoot?” Arthur asks. He shakes his head. “Really, I couldn’t…”

“Oh, come _on_.”

_I_ should _,_ Arthur thinks. _Isn’t that what I wanted - to be part of this scene, and with Curt, or someone like him, someone spectacular, for the whole world to see?_ He grins and steps into the room, suddenly not quite so shy.

The photographer sizes him up.

 “Good idea,” she mutters. “ ‘Bisexual chic’…”

Arthur winces, expecting a full-fledged outburst from Curt. It doesn’t come. The woman pulls Arthur close and fusses over him. Fixes his hair. Tries to smile, and asks if he’s Curt’s boyfriend. Arthur sees her grimace despite herself, as if to say _I don’t envy you_.

Then he’s posing with Curt draped around him, half-sheltered by Curt’s open leather jacket.

“Just like that. Don’t kiss him or anything…”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Curt presses his lips to Arthur’s cheek, gently, in sharp contrast with his ferocity of five minutes before. Arthur flushes with pride.


	11. Chapter 11

Jack had asked him to run some errands at tonight's venue, but Arthur ends up getting waylaid by the guys in Curt’s band asking him if he’s seen Curt today. He hasn’t. He looks down when he’s asked, fidgeting, and wishing he could just go, when he hears Curt’s step outside. He’s as glad as Curt’s bandmates to see him show up, apparently an hour late, and so fucked up that he can barely stand.

Arthur hurries to his side. Curt takes his arm, staggering and muttering something incoherent, and Arthur bites his lip. He imagines himself holding Curt’s hair back while Curt vomits in the hotel toilet later tonight. _Great_ , he thinks. _Romantic._ But it won’t be the first time. Arthur sighs.

Across the room, he sees Chris, the drummer, glaring at Curt, while Steve, the bassist, just shakes his head.

“What did you take?” Chris snarls. Curt had said once that he and Chris were good friends back in the States, when they were younger. They had done plenty of drugs together, too, in those days, which was why Chris’s new sobriety was a constant source of tension between them.

Curt shrugs. He drags Arthur to a chair at the back of the room and sprawls on it, half pulling Arthur into his lap. Arthur kneels in front of him. He can feel himself starting to get hard from the contact and the thought of what he and Curt could be doing, in this position; he flushes. This is hardly the time or place.

Curt reaches for a cigarette, tries to light it with shaking hands. Instead he burns his finger on the lighter and lets it clatter to the floor. He laughs, as if this is the biggest fucking joke he has ever seen. Arthur stifles another sigh. He can hear the guys muttering behind him, but his focus is on Curt. He picks the lighter up and lights the cigarette for Curt.

“Here,” he says, taking another cigarette for himself and lighting that one, too.

“All right, Arthur,” Steve says, taking a step toward him and Curt. “You should probably get out of here.”

Arthur starts to get up, but Curt catches his wrist, drags him down and kisses him sloppily.

“Don’t you go anywhere,” he slurs. “You’re so good to me. And so hot…”

Arthur tries to laugh as he shrugs Curt’s hand away.

“Look, I’ll just be outside,” he says, though he knows this won’t be much of a rehearsal.

Curt’s hand is back on Arthur’s wrist, insistent, and stronger than Arthur expected.

“Aw come on, Brian,” Curt whines.

Arthur winces. He looks at Curt’s face, searching. Curt’s eyes are glassy, unfocused, and his smile is vacant; this might be the worst shape Arthur has seen him in. _He doesn’t mean anything…_

“To hell with this,” Chris mutters. “He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to. What’s the fucking point?”

And he storms past Steve, past Curt and Arthur, out of the room. Arthur can just picture the fight that’ll come later, when Curt’s sober enough to learn what happened. For now, though, he is still insensible.

Steve takes a step forward. His eyes meet Arthur’s; he shrugs. Arthur just shakes his head.

“I’ll – talk to him before he quits for good,” Steve murmurs, sounding as helpless as Arthur feels. Arthur grips Curt’s hand as the other man hurries from the room, leaving them alone again.


	12. Chapter 12

Curt’s been getting worse lately, slipping away to shoot up heroin and Arthur’s not even sure what else. Tonight, for the first time since Arthur has known him, he left the after party before Arthur did. When Arthur got back to the hotel he found Curt struggling to stand up from the sofa, and had to help him to the toilet to be sick.

_At least it’s intimate_ , Arthur thinks, bitterly, sitting beside Curt on the cold linoleum floor of the bathroom and holding his hair back while he vomits, just like he had to last week (or was it two weeks ago?) after that disastrous rehearsal. Sometimes he wonders why Curt does it. But then, he’d looked so _happy_ even when he was trying, and failing, to pull himself up from the sofa – and even now, although the sight and sound and smell of him being sick are starting to turn Arthur’s stomach. _Is it worth it?_ Arthur thinks. _You idiot_ …

Not that Arthur’s much better, of course. He’s actually started to worry about the 'ludes he takes, now that he’s realized he has a few gaps in his memory that he doesn’t like to think about. There are a couple concerts and parties that are half-gone, and, apparently, at least one hook up. Danny, one of the assistants at Curt’s management company, was traveling overseas and took in some of their Scandinavian shows. Apparently Arthur went back to his hotel with him after the Stockholm gig. He was nice when they met a couple days later, didn’t tease Arthur about forgetting, and of course Arthur’s not worried about Curt – they _expect_ that they’ll  each sleep with other people – but it’s just weird to forget in the first place. Weird, and worse than having memories that are a bit hazy, a bit distorted by alcohol or acid trips. Hazy he can deal with, but Arthur knows he’s been relying too much on the Quaaludes. A couple people warned him he might get holes in his memory, including Curt himself.

“Pick your poison,” Curt had joked one night, a couple weeks ago, when Arthur had finished out a bottle backstage. “You should be careful, man. If you take them like they’re fucking Skittles you’re gonna have problems.”

“Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Arthur had replied, unsure of whether to be amused or resentful, and a little uninhibited thanks to the drugs. He would have been too shy to say anything otherwise, though the thought of Curt – who couldn’t travel without a prescription for methadone “to tide him over," as he said, and who’d cheerfully encouraged Arthur to dabble in heroin – showing a self-righteous streak had bothered him.

He would have been better off staying quiet. Curt was furious with him, and had sworn and stormed out despite being in full view of Jack and both their bands (other people _never_ inhibited Curt from anything), and despite Arthur’s repeated apologies. Arthur had cabbed back to the hotel alone, then moped around the lobby wanting to kick himself for starting a row and worrying that Curt might throw him out of their shared room. It was almost dawn when he finally gathered up the courage to go upstairs to Curt, who was thankfully back to normal. That was his way of apologizing, or _one_ of his ways of apologizing.

Arthur shifts a little on the bathroom floor and puts his free hand on Curt’s side.

“I’m all right,” Curt says, finally, leaning away from the toilet.

“You sure?” Arthur asks. _You better be. I’m not cleaning up after you or – or dealing with complaints from the hotel…_ He actually shudders at the thought of someone finding them like this, of having to explain anything to an angry hotel manager or, worse, the local police. He pushes the thought away and rubs Curt’s back. Really, he doesn’t know where he’d go or what he’d do without Curt, ugly as tonight has been. He'll do a lot for Curt, just... Not things that he _can’t_ do, that are completely beyond him, like that.

“Yeah,” Curt answers at last. He gropes for Arthur’s knee and pats it, a loving, gentle touch. For some reason Arthur tenses, resentment flooding back to him. _It’s probably meant for Brian Slade or someone, not for me._

“You’re a good kid,” Curt adds, sighing deeply. Arthur assumes that probably _was_ meant for him. _Great._

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “In fact –” he hesitates, afraid to start another row, yet not quite able to help himself. He should have learned his lesson by now. Apparently he’s not too clever. But Curt looks so out of it, eyes shut once more and a vacant grin on his face.

“In fact – um – this can be my job as your boyfriend, eh? Full fuckingtime…”

Curt laughs, which just goes to show _how_ high he is: there’s no way someone as bright as he is would miss the sarcasm and miss taking offense if he were sober. Arthur rolls his eyes. He _could_ have found more fun things to do tonight than help Curt be sick. He could have met and slept with someone else, someone like that Danny, which would have been a more pleasant night even if he does love Curt more overall. Even just walking around the city might have been more interesting.

And yet, he can’t leave Curt like this, either.

“Why don’t you lie down?” Arthur suggests.

Curt nods. Arthur helps him up, wishing he had time to wash his hands. He’ll do it later.

Curt returns to the overstuffed sofa Arthur had found him on earlier, leaving the king size bed for Arthur alone. That’s fine, under the circumstances. It’s too late to go out again, and Arthur clearly won’t be sleeping with Curt tonight. He sighs as he climbs into bed. The room is cold, _really_ cold, but he won’t call the hotel reception and risk anyone finding Curt stoned out of his mind with his kit laid out in the middle of the floor. Instead he curls up under the heavy blanket and rather scratchy sheets, and looks forward to having Curt with him properly again.

*

He wakes up trembling violently, teeth chattering, and pulls the bedclothes tighter around his body. They don’t help much. He sits up after a few seconds, knowing he should check on Curt, but a little afraid to walk through this stupid freezing room. Eventually he forces himself up. When he passes the picture window he notices the curtains rustling more than they should be, parts them, and realizes that the window has been open for God knows how long. Arthur hisses in annoyance as he drags it shut, thinks, _That explains a lot_ , and finally turns to check on Curt. He’s sleeping deeply, too deeply, maybe, but breathing fine.

Arthur shudders and hugs himself, unsure of whether he should go back to bed or try to do _something._ Still, at least he was able to sleep a bit without 'ludes or anything. He doesn’t quite want to end up like Curt.

The room service menu is lying untouched on the table beside Curt’s sofa. Arthur picks it up. He wishes he had a proper book to read, but doesn’t, and getting something to eat would pass the time, too. He flips through the menu, then hesitates before calling. Curt is still on the nod, and Arthur is still wearing the clothes and makeup he’d had on earlier. His face burns at the thought of someone seeing him and making an off colour remark. _But they’ll know I’m with the Curt Wild-Jack Fairy tour. They should_ know _what to expect._

He picks up the phone.

“Can I get room service?” he asks, in response to the sleepy and heavily accented _hello_. “Room 1704…”

“We’re closed,” the clerk says. Arthur frowns. “It’s a quarter after three.”

_Fuck_ , Arthur thinks. But he’s screwed up the courage to make the call, so he thinks he deserves something. He tries again.

“Sorry, but it’s for _Curt Wild_ ,” he says, lingering on Curt’s name, as he's heard Curt and other people with the tour do.

The clerk pauses. Arthur hopes he’ll relent.

“All right,” he says.

Arthur stifles a laugh – a grim laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

“Great, just add it to the hotel bill,” he says. Curt’s usually generous; it shouldn’t matter. He orders pizza and soup and coffee, which he changes to hot chocolate after a moment, and a bottle of wine because champagne is too extravagant to drink alone or to put on Curt’s tab without real permission.

He goes to wait by the door when he hangs up. Curt stirs a little. Arthur hesitates before walking back to him.

“You all right?” he asks.

Curt murmurs something along the lines of _sure, fine_ , then something about the time. Arthur strokes his arm.

“It’s a little after three,” he says, gently. Curt’s skin may be warm to the touch, but Arthur can’t help the sudden stab of panic that knots his stomach, or the sudden fear that something might happen to Curt and leave Arthur alone in the middle of all this. He touches Curt's hand, feels his pulse, but doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel _for_. _It’s all right_ , he tells himself. _He knows what he’s doing._ He tries not to think about Curt’s warning just weeks before. _Too much and this shit can kill you._

“I, um, ordered something to eat,” Arthur adds. He hopes Curt will respond – needs him to respond, at least somewhat coherently. “For when you want something…”

“Great,” Curt slurs. His face twists into a slow smile. “You’re a real help. Real cute, and a real…” His voice trails off again. Arthur bites his lip, and relaxes just a little when he feels Curt grasp his fingers. He supposes he can hang onto Curt a little longer, before the room service interrupts them.


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur can’t even say tonight’s show was particularly good. Maybe he’s just sick; he’s been struggling not to puke all night, and knows he needs to sober up.

He’s not sure how or why he ends up with the guitarist from the opening act. He saw Curt go off with some tramp after his set, which certainly didn’t help the queasy feeling in his stomach, and he supposes he just needs to be with _someone,_ now.

The callused hands playing over Arthur’s neck and shoulder feel a little like Curt’s. But when he actually tries to fuck Arthur, he’s too rough. A few thrusts, and Arthur realizes that he is in pain.

“Ease up,” he says.

No response. _Too drunk_ , Arthur thinks, disgusted, pulling away.

“Sh – kid –”

“Piss off,” Arthur snaps.

He pulls on his jeans, hoping he’ll be able to find his way back to the hotel.


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur is exhausted and flushed with alcohol and shame, even now, hours after his row with Curt, wandering out in the cold Paris night. Somewhere nearby, an ambulance rushes down the street with its siren blaring. Arthur starts. The sound is _wrong_ , slightly off from the sirens in England, and foreign enough to remind him just how far he is from home.

If he even _has_ a home, that is.

It’s funny, what you notice when you’re hitting rock bottom.

He realizes that his eyes are wet. Roughly, he wipes away the tears with his right hand and cradles the glass in his left. His arm is sore where Curt grabbed him. He pulls up the sleeve of his jacket and winces at the sudden tightness around the sore spot. He’s a little bruised. For a second he wonders if he should try to do something, though he can’t remember what you’re supposed to do for bruising. Looking for a chemist's shop's out of the question, too: it’s too late, he has no money and he doesn’t speak the language. He could go back to the hotel to get some ice, but he doesn’t want to just yet. Besides, he can’t bear the thought of the clerk or anyone else asking him what happened or what’s wrong. He’s not sure he could say even if he wanted to.

He remembers asking Curt something stupid and ordinary. Then they started arguing. The argument itself is a blur, distorted by drugs and alcohol and shock, though some of it’s clear enough. He remembers the look on Curt’s face when Curt hit him, and he can still hear Curt’s lousy fucking entourage, the new drug buddies and hangers on he seems to pick up everywhere, laughing at him.

He rubs his arm, reflexively. The touch only makes him more aware of the pain, so he forces himself to stop. Anyway, his arm’s not really the problem. He’s had worse. Everyone has – but it’s Curt’s anger, the violence alternating with cold neglect, that really scares him. Arthur knew Curt was unpredictable, edgy, dangerous, a recovering addict who’d careened off the wagon several times over. He couldn’t _not_ have known that, a big fan like him. Music – Curt and Brian Slade, mainly – had been his life. Now Curt really _is_ his life, and Arthur can’t imagine leaving, can’t imagine what he’ll do if Curt stays angry or if he’s truly sick of Arthur by now.

Somehow Arthur hasn’t counted on this. He should have. He just wasn’t thinking ahead like he should have been. If he had been he’d have known someone like him could never make someone like Curt happy. He could never be Brian or anything like that. Arthur’s completely ordinary, and Curt Wild could find a million other kids just like him or better. There’s nothing to Arthur, really. He’s not clever or cool or talented, despite his occasional interest in writing; he didn’t even get to do his A-levels. He has nothing except the music he likes and being gay and, now, being in love with Curt. He won’t be hard to replace. But then, he'd do anything for Curt - has tried to do anything and everything for him. He hadn’t expected to be – well – attacked like this, either.

His insides tighten at the memory, until he can hardly breathe through his panic. He hasn’t been this scared since his dad walked in on him on the first of those awful few days that forced him to leave home. _Christ_.

The difference, though, is that he might not have anywhere else to go this time. He really thought he’d be happy in this scene; if he can’t – if he can’t stay, if Curt’s done with him – then he can’t imagine what he’ll do. He just can’t think. The words swirl through his mind over and over, crippling him.

Arthur tries to finish his drink, but finds he can’t even achieve that. He actually gags on it. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels thick in his mouth, like he can’t use it. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then throws the glass down as hard as he can. It shatters on the pavement with a thin high sound that is soon muffled. There’s no satisfaction in it. Arthur opens his eyes and looks around the empty street, almost grateful that there’s no one around to see him. But that, too, is a small consolation. His knees buckle suddenly, and he wavers, stretches out one arm to steady himself against a wall. _Fuck. Shit. Fuck._ Sweat stings his left eye; he winces, but wasn’t even aware that he’d started sweating. His mind is racing with memories – Curt’s face, Curt shoving him, yelling at him for being an irritating, stupid fucking kid, and Arthur probably _is_ all that, he knows that, but he didn’t deserve to be humiliated in front of the whole bar, either, and he needs Curt still. It’s pathetic, all of it. He’s pathetic. He needs Curt, and he needs to just stop _thinking_ about things for a while. He doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to quiet his mind or forget anything quite so much.

He takes a few shallow breaths, and eventually pulls himself upright and away from the wall to head back to the hotel.

* * *

An hour later, Arthur can hardly remember who he is. He’s so warm, so peaceful. His mouth itches and he feels as if he’s floating, as if the whole universe had been made just for him. He thinks he’ll sleep better tonight than he has in an age.

Arthur lets his eyes fall shut and slumps against the chair as the needle drops from his hand. 


	15. Chapter 15

It’s funny, if you can call it that. Usually Curt’s the one waking up struggling and puking in a hospital somewhere, leaving his label to apologize. _Sudden illness has prevented Curt Wild from appearing as scheduled, tickets will be refundable_... Whatever. But not this time. He knows he’ll hear about this. _Missing half your set for the latest screwed up, drugged-out, faggy kid you’ve been fucking? Maybe you shouldn’t have encouraged him_ , or, _Maybe if you hadn’t slapped him around, you wouldn’t be in this mess…_

He can just imagine Chris using Arthur’s situation as ammunition in starting another fight, another moralizing sermon, as if he hadn’t done the same kinds of things himself up until last year. And Jack – Curt’s more worried about Jack’s reaction, to be honest. He’s done a lot for Curt, and hasn’t thrown it back in his face yet, despite all the shit Curt has gotten up to. Still, Curt knows he hasn’t been happy about Arthur, or about Curt treating him like the latest hotel room to trash. He’s seen Jack’s pinched looks in his – their – direction, although he never says much.

_“Was he breathing?”_ Curt had asked Jack. It seemed the most important thing, because of course he hadn’t been there for Arthur himself. He’d been at that stupid party, and then too stoned for too much of the morning to miss Arthur. His stomach aches at the thought. He doesn't like being this way.

“Here,” Curt mutters to the cab driver. The guy doesn’t brake fast enough.

“Here, for fuck’s sake,” Curt snaps. “The hospital…”

Arthur hadn’t been breathing enough. Curt still doesn’t know what to think or feel, even after downing a few methadone tablets and some coffee and taking the first cab he could get to the hospital. Curt knows Arthur didn’t stand a chance with him. He can see that now, but Arthur – You don’t fucking do this, either. You don’t kill yourself as a weapon or a punishment, even if someone has been a piece of shit to you. Curt’s pretty sure that’s what was going on here. Arthur’s not a junkie; he had the sense to stay away from hard shit, until last night.

“You pay how?” the driver asks, in his crap English.

Curt bites down hard on his lip and thrusts a few bills at the man.

“Here,” he says, throwing open the door and jumping from the car before the cabbie can complain. For a second he wonders how much the hospital will cost. _Fuck_. _Fuck_... His head throbs. He tells himself that he’ll ask someone about the bill, someone at the hospital, as soon as he finds something who speaks English enough to fucking _communicate_. He can do one thing right, at least. _Send it on to my management._ Well – Jack’s management. He’ll _really_ hear about that. It’ll piss them off royally, but he doesn’t care. Arthur doesn’t have any money. Hell, he’d been begging Curt to get something to eat with him when Curt freaked out…

He hurries up the walk, then hesitates. The hospital looks so old, so _ornate,_ and so different from the brick and metal cage back in Ann Arbor. He has to suppress a shudder. Hospitals always give Curt the creeps. He can’t go into one without half-expecting the shocks, the gag in his mouth, and his family. These places never get any easier no matter how many times he wakes up in one himself.

_Arthur,_ Curt thinks, and clenches his fists at his side. For a moment he wonders if he should just leave, turn down the street, and get another cab back to the hotel or better yet, to tonight’s venue. _I’m probably the last person he wants to see…_ And he shouldn’t risk blowing up at Arthur again, should he? Even though he’s scared Curt half to death, in a way he had no right to do, and even though the paramedics or whoever confiscated Curt’s stash thanks to Arthur and he _needs_ that shit, and it’s expensive and hard to get a connection on tour…

Curt winces. _I’m not that much of a scumbag_ , he tells himself. _Not quite._

He hurries toward the hospital door. 


	16. Chapter 16

Maybe the worst part is that Arthur can’t even _remember_ the whole chain of events that led to him waking up trapped in a hospital with a drip in his arm and some of the worst pain he’s ever experienced. He remembers his fight with Curt or rather Curt’s fight with him, Curt quite literally throwing him away, but the rest of the night is patchy. He thinks he went out for a walk or something after leaving the hotel bar. He also remembers the despair, and still _feels_ the same way, but he was a little surprised when one of the nurses told him this morning that he’d overdosed on heroin and Quaaludes. That would explain why he’s so sick, although he knows he doesn’t buy heroin and can’t recall going back to the hotel to take any from Curt’s stash.

He wonders if the withdrawal or whatever he’s going through is progressing. It’s not like he has a future waiting for him outside the hospital, but he’ll be glad to be rid of the pain and twitching and retching. He can’t even get up to vomit. He tried standing up earlier to walk to the toilet when he needed to throw up only to double over from cramps and faintness, and had to be carried back to bed by hospital staff. That was this morning; at least he thinks it was in the morning, although his little room doesn’t have a window, so it’s hard to say what time it is.

They’re leaving him alone more now, which is fine by Arthur. He hates the contempt in the doctors’ and nurses’ faces – and he can recognize it, even without speaking the language. He can’t really blame them. He knows what he must look like, all smudged makeup with his sequined, slag clothing folded on the chair by his bed. One of the doctors especially looks at him almost like his dad did.

A nurse comes into his room. He hears her steps echoing on the tile floor and tries to turn away. Another wave of nausea hits him, and he stills himself and takes a shaky breath.

“How is it?” the nurse asks. Arthur recognizes her. She’s the one with the best English, who has tried to be nice to him.

He grimaces anyway. He’s spoken as little as possible and drawn as little attention to himself as he could, but the question is so stupid he can’t help snapping now.

“What do you think?” he spits. “What does it _look_ like?”

His words don’t bother her. She checks his vitals again, and gives him what he assumes is an encouraging smile before answering.

“You’re doing well,” she says. “Better than many people do.”

Arthur sighs and pulls the blanket tighter around him. He’d tried to explain earlier that he wasn’t addicted and didn’t think he’d be too bad until he realized how stupid he must sound and that everyone must say the same thing. Anyway, he was wrong; he’s never been so sick in his life. He’s so cold he’s sure he must have a high fever and he can barely move without wanting to throw up. At least, he thinks he’ll understand better what Curt and other people Arthur knows in this scene go through, though it’s a bit late for understanding.

The nurse continues, “I’ll have them send up dinner to you later – I think you can handle it – and I have your next pills.”

That had been another surprise. He’d expected them to force him to detox or something rather than treat an overdose with more drugs. Instead they’ve been plying him with pills ever since he woke up. It took him some time to realize they‘re giving him methadone, which just makes him think of Curt more ( _how fucking romantic)_ and makes him feel worse.

“I don’t want anything,” he murmurs.

“We’ll see,” she says. Then she looks him over again, long and hard. Cold as he is, Arthur feels his cheeks going hot. He’s so afraid of that contempt again, and tenses, grinding his teeth.

“I’ll bring you another blanket,” the nurse says.

Arthur relaxes somewhat. But the woman goes on, “I have to ask – no memory still? Of what happened? What you took?”

Arthur turns his face away. He wonders if she’s guessed, if she suspects that he may have done it deliberately. He’s not even sure himself. He hasn’t got much of a future either way, after everything that’s happened to him. Then again, the thought of pain and of being sick and filthy and pathetic – everything he ended up _getting_ – might have deterred him. He doesn’t know.

“No,” he says. “Nothing.”

He holds his breath, hoping the answer will be enough for her. It is: she purses her lips before finally nodding, then turns and leaves Arthur alone again.


	17. Chapter 17

He tells the receptionist that he wants to see his boyfriend, but when he has to repeat himself to the nurses minutes later, Arthur becomes a friend, then a roadie with his band, then his boyfriend again. He doesn’t know why. He’s not ashamed, is he? Not of _having_ a boyfriend, at least, although there are plenty of other things he can and should be ashamed of. Then again, he’s not even sure if these idiots at the hospital understand him. Fuck, how can he ask or say anything if they don’t understand, if everyone’s English is so goddamn bad? _He’ll be fine, right? He’s not addicted or anything; he just tried it a couple times…_

“How can I help?” one nurse, an older woman with dark hair, asks. Curt thinks someone called her over because she knows English better, or something.

“I need to see someone,” he snaps. “I _said_ that already…”

He’s an inch away from shouting at her; it would be better than sounding _weak_ , like he does now.

“My boyfriend, OK? Arthur – Stuart.” His voice rises. The woman gives him a pinched look for a moment. Curt glares at her, then breaks eye contact abruptly to pull another cigarette from the box in his pocket because, Jesus Christ, he needs one.

“OK,” the nurse says, “this way.”

She leads him down the hallway at last. Curt softens towards her, as much as he can in the mood he’s in. Not everyone would let him see Arthur at all.

But Curt hesitates at the door, his head still pounding and his insides feeling like cold ash. He wishes he’d grabbed more pills before coming here. He’s a little subdued from the methadone, but not enough. Not enough to drug himself out of the alternating guilt and anger and worry, and into forgetting how he’d hurt Arthur and, also, how scared he was, how Arthur could hurt him. Maybe he could think what to say if he didn’t feel like such shit. _Are you OK?_ Just pathetic, given the circumstances. _What the fuck were you doing,_ trying _to kill yourself?_ Or, _Man, you’re lucky Jack found you…_   Jack, not Curt, of course. He bites his lip as he enters the room.

Arthur looks like he’s sleeping. He probably nodded off from whatever they gave him, quite possibly methadone. Curt can see the bruise on his arm, faint but still visible below the sleeve of the faded hospital gown. It sends a stab of guilt through Curt. He doesn’t _like_ being so out of control. _I’m sorry. I’m a piece of shit and I know it and I’m sorry…_ He steps forward, despite his misgivings. He regrets that he didn’t leave Arthur on that rooftop with a story for his friends and something to be flattered and maybe a little smug about. That should have been it. He just didn’t stand a chance with Curt and Curt’s issues: drugs and Brian and this fucking tour apparently not making enough goddamn money. (And Curt had come pretty close to decking Brian, too, at least during their last meltdown. Maybe Curt just shouldn't be with anyone: he's too fucked up for it.)

Curt fidgets by the door, tearing at the skin around his fingernails until his fingers are raw and stinging. He knows he has to say something ( _selfish idiot kid; I didn't_ want _this for you_ ) but doesn't want to wake Arthur, who looks drawn and paper white – almost literally.

Curt remembers Arthur sitting backstage, or in the front row, at a couple venues writing stories or his thoughts or something on hotel paper, and grinning up at Curt from his perch. Jesus, was that just a few weeks ago?

Curt steps backward now. He's too loud, though, and the noise makes Arthur start awake. _Shit._ He looks around before meeting Curt's gaze, looking first dazed and then cold, accusing. He doesn't quite flinch. Surprising: Curt expects him to. He shoves his hand into his pocket and clenches it, angry at Arthur for judging him, or maybe for _not_ judging him nearly enough. Then he reminds himself that he has made the mess, not Arthur.

Again he wishes he could turn away. But he forces himself to stay where he is, and makes sure that his voice is gentle when he speaks.

“Hey…”


	18. Chapter 18

Arthur's heart jumps when he sees Curt. He has so wanted him to come and yet dreaded his arrival. He stiffens, unable to speak even as Curt greets him with a casual _hey._ It's not as casual as Curt usually is, though: Arthur can hear the strain in his voice.  _Look at me. I still_ care. God, he makes himself sick.

He doesn't answer. Silence falls between them, so heavy Arthur thinks he could touch it. Maybe that's just the drugs talking.

“Are you all right?” Curt asks. Arthur grits his teeth.

“What do you think?” he snaps, as he had with the nurse.

Curt sighs. “Look, I didn't want this to happen, OK?”

Sweat beads at Arthur's brow. He hates being so scared, so pathetic that he can't even think of an answer – a way to speak up for himself, or end things with dignity, maybe. He turns his face away only to be hit by nausea. Damn it. He'd thought he was doing better, at least physically; he'd even managed to hold down a bit of soup without being sick, but of course seeing Curt again would wreck everything.

“I hope it wasn't on purpose,” Curt goes on. Arthur still won't look at him, just listens for the soft fabric and paper sounds of Curt tearing through his box of cigarettes for another smoke. “I'm not gonna ask you that, 'cause I've been in similar places, but -” He stops short. Arthur hopes he's making Curt squirm. He doesn't trust Curt anymore, and knows things are over between them anyway, so he probably won't need to trust Curt, but he'd rather hear some sign of guilt than nothing at all.

“Fuck, why do you have to make this harder for me?” Curt asks, his voice rising.

“I'm not making it _easier_ ,” Arthur says, as coldly as he can. Then his face goes hot. “I've already tried to do everything for you.”

“You can't do anything for me,” Curt fires back. Then he softens. “We're just not - good together. This just isn’t gonna work.”

_So that’s it,_ Arthur thinks, turning away. _The end. It’s finally over._ What little warmth is left in his body goes out of it. He shudders, and prays that Curt won’t try to touch him now and feel him shaking.

No such luck. Curt reaches for his shoulder. Arthur shifts position, shrugging Curt’s hand away.

Curt sighs. “Look, you should go home –”

“I don’t have one,” Arthur snaps. His own forcefulness shocks him, but then, he has nothing to lose by going on. “Did you hear one fucking word I’ve said to you? I–”

“That’s not what I meant,” Curt says, touching Arthur’s arm – so gentle, though he had bruised him just a day or two before. Arthur closes his eyes. “I meant you should go back to England. Make some normal friends. Pretend none of this ever happened.”

And even with his eyes shut, Arthur can just _see_ his world closing in – ending – around him. He tries to speak but his mouth is too dry. He knows, objectively, that he could meet other men and have other boyfriends, even friends, eventually – he could still look up Malcolm and the Creatures, see if they can find a place for him again. His life doesn’t have to end now, not necessarily; people have survived similar shit. He just doesn’t _believe_ any of that. It’s like he can’t internalize it, or whatever the word is. Besides, he can’t afford to go anywhere.

“I – don’t have the money,” he manages. He opens his eyes again, looks up at Curt. Curt’s face is pale, and his hair is unwashed and ragged. He looks almost like Arthur feels, only Arthur has no pity for anyone except himself just now – not when he can still feel the force of Curt’s hand crushing his arm, shaking him, and throwing him away.

At the same time, of course, Arthur can hardly imagine life without Curt. He won’t beg, but he racks his brain for anything to say to delay the inevitable. Nothing comes to mind.

Curt continues, “Look, I can pay for you – ”

Arthur’s face goes hot. “You just can’t wait to get rid of me?”

“No,” Curt says, quietly. “Trust me, it’ll be better for you.”

_Father knows best,_ Arthur thinks, disgusted. Curt’s the last person he would have expected to be so patronizing.

“Just listen to me before I get high or horny or whatever. I’m sorry, but – ”

Curt’s voice trails off. It doesn’t matter; Arthur can hear the tone of finality in his voice, and knows he’s right, as much as he hates to admit it.

For the first time, he actually wants Curt to leave. He’s too afraid that he’ll just crumple up and cry right in front of him.

“Fine,” Arthur says.

Curt doesn’t take the hint. He hesitates, still watching Arthur’s face. _Bastard’s always thinking of himself_...

“Take care of yourself,” Curt says.

Arthur has heard enough.

“Just fuck off, all right? Just piss off…”

Curt’s eyes widen, then narrow; he draws back stiffly.

“Fine.”

*

Being left alone doesn’t help Arthur, either. He lies facing the wall so they won’t see the tears on his face – pathetic, as always – and shivers, afraid he’ll be sick again, but knowing his body’s probably through the worst of the withdrawal. Once again he finds himself with too much time to think. He remembers the scenes that had come between him and Curt before. They’d always had happy endings, until now.

_“It’s okay,”_ Curt would say, pulling him close. _“I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”_

And Arthur would believe him.

_“It’s gonna be okay, really._ _You’re so fucking beautiful…”_

The nurse, the one who speaks English rather well and tries to be nice, comes in, clears her throat, and starts talking. Arthur barely hears her.

“Are you returning to England?” she asks. “We should discharge you tonight or tomorrow, and we can recommend facilities here, but if you’re going home I’ll have to call some places…”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He’s too busy staring at the wall and trying to stop _remembering_. 


	19. Chapter 19

Alcohol, sex, even most of the drugs he’s been taking – nothing does enough to make him forget. Nothing is hard enough.

Two fuck ups in  – what, three months? Four? – is a lot even by Curt’s standards. When he can’t forget, sometimes he tries pretending that he still has Arthur or Brian with him. It’s hard though, when he’s walking around with a plane ticket to give to Jack to give to Arthur, since Curt can’t face him himself. So much for being Arthur’s – or anyone’s – fucking hero.

*

He leads the dark-haired boy out to the balcony. The kid’s too short, and his hair _feels_ wrong beneath Curt’s lips and fingers.

“Don’t be nervous,” Curt says, remembering. “Are you high?”

Wrong answer, in the wrong accent. The words make Curt cringe inside, but he’s as gentle as he wanted to be – should have been – with Arthur.

*

He storms out of the hotel afterward, shaking fingers clutching the cigarette like a talisman, and hoping the kid will have the sense to be gone when he gets back. For now, though, Curt just needs a hit like he has never needed anything.


	20. Chapter 20

Arthur’s trembling and faint by the time he gets back to the hotel. He supposes he should be grateful Curt’s doing the Paris shows spaced a few days apart, but really it’s hard to feel _anything_ , let alone gratitude, and he rather wishes he were still in the hospital. He can’t do this.

He hesitates at the reception desk, too scared to ask for Curt. Who’d believe or remember him? But he needs closure, and Curt had promised him money or a plane ticket or something. He just needs somewhere to go, yet can’t screw up the courage to make eye contact with the clerk. _I can’t do this. I won’t survive this…_

“May I help you?” one of the clerks asks.

Arthur looks up at him, heart racing, then looks down again as he thrusts his shaking hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“I – I was with the Curt Wild tour,” he stammers. “Please, I need to speak to him.”

A long pause. Arthur’s sure the other man must be looking at him in disbelief. _Please, please, don’t make this take longer than it has to…_

“I can call the manager,” Arthur hears the clerk say. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Arthur nods and manages a strangled thanks before finding himself a seat. He doesn’t so much sit down as collapse, gripping the plush armrests with damp hands to steady himself. He actually hears a roaring in his ears. It’s becoming normal for him, dread so overwhelming that it makes him physically ill. He promises himself that if he gets to see Curt or anyone, really, he’ll ask if they’ve got something for him to take.

“Excuse me,” the clerk says. The sound of his voice sends a little jolt through Arthur, who looks up, and flushes with shame. Christ, he’s _such_ a mess. Everyone who sees him must be thinking that.

“Someone will come down for you.”

The words check Arthur’s panic, a little. He nods.

“Thanks.”

Then he’s back to shivering and covering his face in his hands moments later, relieved that there’s no one in the lobby except the two clerks, and wishing that even they weren’t there. His limbs are so weak he doesn’t know how he’ll stand up when, or if, Curt comes down.

But it’s not Curt who comes down to talk to him. Arthur hears someone calling his name softly from the stairs, as if from a great distance away, and recognizes Jack Fairy’s voice. His stomach sinks even further.

“Come up to my room so we can talk,” Jack says, in his most commanding tone. Arthur nods. Somehow he forces himself up and follows Jack to the lift.

“Is Curt around?” Arthur asks as soon as the door shuts behind them. He watches Jack’s face intently, and thinks he sees a slight faltering in the older man’s even features; he winces.

“I don’t think it’s good for you to keep chasing after him,” Jack says. He leans forward to unlock the door of his suite, one of the penthouse suites, a twin to the one Arthur had been staying in with Curt just a couple days before. Arthur suppresses a sigh.

“Why does everyone think they should make the decisions for me?” he snaps.

Jack straightens up, and turns back to Arthur with a pinched look on his face.

“I’m going to ignore that, because I want to help you – ”

Arthur shakes his head. “Why?”

It’s another thing he knows he should be grateful for, _anyone_ wanting to help him or have anything to do with him. He’s just so sick of being patronized by people he doesn’t expect it from.

Then again, he’s experienced a lot of things he never expected.

Jack opens the door for him.

“Consider it – an issue of identification, with you,” he says. Arthur looks down, grimacing. _Whatever the fuck that means._

“It’s unreasoning and unhealthy, what you – feel for him, but it won’t last, and I don’t want to see you beaten down by it, or throwing your life away,” Jack continues. Arthur frowns. It’s probably the most he has heard Jack say to anyone. He’s right about the unreasoning, unhealthy love, too. Arthur just doesn’t know how to make it _stop_.

“Sit down,” Jack says into the silence. “You’re not holding up well, are you?”

Arthur shakes his head. He looks around for an armchair and drops down into it. Jack perches on the sofa across from him.

“I have your luggage, your ticket, and something from Curt, and I’ve booked a room for you at a hotel for when you first get in,” he explains, gently. Arthur’s chest tightens.

“I can’t pay you back or anything–”

Jack shrugs. “We knew that already. Now, I also knew you were working with the Flaming Creatures, but I couldn’t reach them, and that might not be the most stable thing for you. I’ve taken the liberty of writing down some of the London record stores where I’ve done signings and promotions and things. You should try to call in a favour.”

He hands Arthur an envelope. Arthur takes it, dazed. He feels the same way he did in the hospital, when they discharged him: he can hear everyone’s words and their plans for him, to _help_ him, supposedly. He just can’t see himself carrying through with anything.

“And he’s not even going to – say goodbye, or something?” he asks.

Now it’s Jack’s turn to sigh.

“I wish you’d start thinking, and stop drifting from bad decision to bad decision,” he replies. Arthur bristles a little. “Take my advice. You don’t _need_ any particular lover, or family, or – class at school, to accept you, do you understand?”

Arthur knows he’ll sound like the stupid kid everyone thinks he is if he disagrees, so he says nothing, just stares at the floor.

“Do you want anything – breakfast or tea or something?” Jack asks. “Jess – you remember him, don’t you? – was around a little while ago, and I know he was friendly enough with you to share a joint sometimes.”

Arthur perks up a little and nods.

“Yeah, that might help.”

Jack touches his shoulder, just for a second. Arthur tenses. He’s not used to Jack being that warm to him or anyone.

“I’m afraid I don’t have long; I have to head to the venue soon…”

Arthur jerks away from the touch then, and blinks back the tears that prick at his eyes. _Fuck. Of course he doesn’t want me around._

“Fine,” Arthur says, clutching the envelope in his hand tighter. It’s surprisingly heavy, with tape reinforcing its closure. _Valuable contents,_ Arthur thinks, disgusted. _Plane ticket, to get rid of me, and money, like I’m a fucking rent boy…_ “I’ll just – go–”   
  
“I didn’t say that,” Jack insists.

Arthur worries at his lower lip. He’s getting really sick of being treated like a child.

“D’you talk to Curt like that?” he snaps. “About how bad his decisions are, or when he should eat breakfast or…”

He stops short, and scowls at the floor. Jack gives him a moment before replying, unmoved.

“You don’t know what I say to my other friends in private – but at the moment, I’m trying to help _you._ ”

_Fuck off_ , Arthur thinks, but doubts he could get to the airport or anywhere else on his own just yet. _I_ should _be begging to stay, not trying to start a row and leave._ He has so little dignity or self-respect or anything left he supposes he can sink a little lower if it means a drink, the chance to sit still a little longer, and maybe even something chemical to take the edge off his nerves.

“All right,” he relents. “Fine. Just – great.”

*

Arthur feels just as numb later that day, although the joint he’d smoked and the coffee he’d drunk earlier have helped a little. He leans back in his seat right over the plane’s wing, and hopes he’ll be able to sleep a bit. It doesn’t matter how short the flight is: sleeping is about the best he can hope for.

Sleeping, and, preferably, not dreaming.

He shifts position and drapes his leather jacket over himself like a makeshift – rubbish – blanket. He still has the envelope in his pocket. It’s a little emptier now, but he’s not about to throw away money, or Curt’s untidy note reiterating that Arthur should take care and forget any of this ever happened, or the emerald pin Curt saw fit to give him. The sight and feel of it had turned Arthur’s stomach when he finally went through the envelope. He wants to throw it in the Thames or shatter it on the runway as soon as he lands; it doesn’t even make sense for Curt to tell him to just forget everything and move on, but give him – what – a romantic souvenir? But Arthur knows himself, and knows he’ll probably keep the damn thing and both treasure and hate it for a long time to come. _No dignity and no self-respect_ , he thinks.

He sighs as the plane starts up its engines and its slow taxiing across the runway.

*

He’s still drifting months after he gets back to London. He works in a record store, which is pretty shitty now that he has lost his interest in music. The shop’s quite an avant garde one. He would have liked it once, but now? Now he just hopes they never invite Curt Wild for a signing, because he couldn’t take that. He had to shelve some of Curt’s records the other day and could hardly handle them because of how numb he got. Somehow he’d pushed through, reminding himself that everything with Curt was over and not coming back, no matter how he carried on, and that he still had to pay the rent on the dodgy, dirty bedsit room he could more or less afford to live in. He supposes he was lucky the shop was quiet that day so no one saw him go red with suppressed crying or asked him any hard questions.

He never _feels_ lucky – never feels much of anything, really. Jack Fairy had done him a good turn by connecting him to the one shop that needed someone right away. It was the first place Arthur had tried; if he’d had to ask in a second or a third, knowing no one wanted him for anything, he would probably have given up, and just curled up and died somewhere. Arthur doesn’t quite want that, though, which is why he has stayed away from hard drugs so far. Besides, he can’t afford anything anyway.

Slowly, he learns to survive with the constant emptiness inside him, that feeling of being in a daze all the time. He doesn’t look up Malcolm and the rest of them because he knows the memories would be too painful. They probably wouldn’t want him, either, since he ran off like he was better than they were all those months ago. Just look at him now.

Sometimes he thinks about reaching out to his mum. It would be so good to know that someone still cares, and she wasn’t happy at all when his dad forced him to leave, he knows that. She might still love him despite his being gay – probably still does – but he’s made such a mess of his life that he doesn’t want to give her something to _really_ be ashamed of. So he hasn’t called her yet, either.

He tries picking up other men instead, sometimes. His heart’s not in it, but at least he can get a few drinks without having to pay for them himself, get off, and sleep in a more comfortable bed than his own shit room has for a few hours.

*

Arthur has slept with Paul maybe three or four times. He’s okay in bed, reasonably gentle. Sometimes he’ll even kiss Arthur’s shoulder or cheek when they’re both half asleep, as if he cared about him. Arthur likes to pretend that he does, even if they’re going nowhere.

 “You said a name,” Paul says tonight, shifting his position and nudging Arthur awake. Arthur blinks and bites back a complaint. He’d been sleeping rather well, which is rare for him when he’s not a little stoned or a little drunk, and he’d rather not have woken up just yet.

“ _What_?” he asks, yawning.

“You were talking in your sleep. Are you all right?”

Arthur blinks. He had been dreaming about champagne and vodka in hotel beds, and music, and sex on a rooftop with glitter raining down around him. Of course he would rather not have woken up yet.

“I’m fine.”

Arthur never was any good at lying. He hears Paul sigh.

“You know, whatever trouble or heartbreak you’ve had, I think you should try to forget it. Move on.” Paul hesitates. “Listen, are you free at half five tomorrow? I could buy you ice cream or something. We could get to know each other a bit…”

“What, like a date?” Arthur asks. His chest tightens and he shakes his head. He just can’t do this yet. “No. Sorry.”


End file.
